The Beast of the Ring: Ihor Pylypenko and the Unseen World of Journeyman Boxing
His gritty boxing career exposes the hidden world of journeymen fighters, where survival trumps glory and fights are often fixed
Ihor Pylypenko fought 62 bouts over 21 years, winning just six, yet his story reveals the harsh underside of boxing. Often paid to lose and booked last-minute, he played the role of a stepping stone in a corrupt, survival-driven sport. Denied a license at 50, he’s now sidelined, caught between bureaucracy and a war-torn homeland.
On a cold September night in 2019, Ihor Pylypenko stepped off a plane in Germany, dropped his bag in a hotel room, and an hour later, climbed into a boxing ring to fight a Cuban heavyweight he’d never seen before. He hadn’t trained. He hadn’t eaten. But he had agreed to lose — for a few hundred euros more. That was life as a journeyman boxer: no preparation, no fanfare, and no real chance of winning — only the hope of surviving the night with his body and paycheck intact.
When the conversation turns to Ukrainian heavyweight boxing, the Klitschko brothers and Oleksandr Usyk dominate the narrative. But behind those champions lies a gritty, less glamorous layer of the sport — the journeymen, fighters who spend years fighting not for glory or belts, but for a paycheck and the chance to keep the lights on. Among them is Ihor Pylypenko, a man who wore the nickname The Beast but whose career paints a far different picture than his fearsome moniker suggests.
For 21 years, from 2000 to 2021, Ihor stepped into the ring 62 times. His record? Six wins, two draws, and 54 losses — 24 of which ended in knockouts. On paper, it’s not the stuff of legends. But the story behind the numbers reveals the rough-and-tumble reality of professional boxing at the lower tiers.
Ihor is from Zaporizhzhia, Ukraine, and has fought in seven countries, often under circumstances most fighters would shy away from. Take the infamous last-minute fight calls, a staple of his career. In September 2019, for example, a promoter from Germany called Ihor on a Friday and asked if he could fight the very next day. “I agreed,” Ihor recalls in a recent interview. “I flew from Zaporizhzhia to Kyiv, then to Germany. That same evening, I fought a Cuban making his professional debut.”
Such impulsive bookings were common. And with them came the necessity to sometimes ‘play a role’ in the ring — the euphemism Ihor uses for taking a dive or ensuring his opponent’s victory. About half of his losses, he says, were arranged in advance. “They would offer a few hundred euros extra for a guaranteed loss,” he explains. “I usually accepted. I went out there like an actor on stage, playing my part.”
It’s an unglamorous truth about professional boxing that rarely makes headlines. Fighters like Ihor are the unsung players of a larger drama, often serving as stepping stones for younger, better-funded prospects. Yet, despite the arrangements, the fights were not always smooth performances. Ihor tells of one bout in Sweden where he unexpectedly knocked out his opponent in the first round. The promoter initially refused to pay him, arguing that the knockout wasn’t part of the plan. “In the end, I got the money,” Ihor says with a wry smile.
Sometimes, survival instincts kicked in, leading to moments that defied the script. Fighting Sergey Radchenko — now a household name in Ukrainian boxing — Ihor landed two low blows, desperate to avoid a knockout. “I wasn’t trying to be mean, just didn’t want to get stopped,” he admits. It’s a glimpse into the rough reality where rules bend in the name of survival.
Physical preparation for these bouts was often a rush job, too. When asked how long it took to get into fight shape, Ihor says three weeks. For a career journeyman, that’s often all the time available before stepping into a ring where opponents can be twice their size and years younger.
Financially, the career was modest. In Ukraine, a six-round fight might pay $600, while in Europe, the same could earn 1,000 to 1,200 euros for fewer rounds. Fixed fights typically paid double. Still, even with such income, Ihor often had to accept conditions that would make casual fans cringe. One notable paycheck was 3,500 euros for a fight against Olympic champion Rahim Chakhkiev in Germany — a fight Ihor took with a broken hand and hardly threw a punch. “From the stands, it probably looked professional enough,” he jokes.
Despite the losses and the stigma of fixed fights, Ihor never stopped showing up. “I wanted to keep fighting as long as I could,” he says. But age and boxing officials eventually intervened. The Ukrainian National Professional Boxing League (UNPBL) refused to renew his license after he turned 50, citing health concerns and the suspicion surrounding his many ‘arranged’ fights.
Even this decision is tinged with irony. Ihor points out that at recent events, many fights looked just as fixed as the ones he took part in. When confronted, the officials claim it’s all in his imagination.
His career wasn’t just about losses and arranged fights. Ihor also spent time as a sparring partner for big names like Mairis Briedis, earning a steady income and staying in shape without getting ‘killed’ in training sessions. Those weeks of sparring, with good pay and comfortable conditions, were among the more pleasant parts of his boxing life.
There’s also a bizarre chapter in Ihor’s record: two official losses to a Ukrainian boxer he never even fought. This phantom opponent appears on BoxRec, boxing’s official statistics database, but Ihor says he never met the man. When he questioned officials, he got no clear answer — just a reminder that the boxing world isn’t always as neat and tidy as fans expect.
Playing the Beast
Despite having offers from Germany and Poland to fight — and even the ability to arrange the necessary permits and boxing licenses abroad — Ihor remains stuck in Ukraine due to wartime travel restrictions. “The UNPBL could have helped me get the paperwork,” he says, “but they simply refuse to issue my license or allow me to leave. They say it’s for my own safety, but I think it’s also because of all those ‘arranged’ fights they don’t want associated with boxing anymore.” So, while his opponents overseas keep getting matches, Ihor’s gloves remain hung up at home, caught in a system as much as a conflict he can’t fight his way out of.
In the end, Ihor Pylypenko’s career offers a window into the shadowy, tough, and often hilarious backstage of professional boxing. His story is not about championships or fame but about persistence, survival, and knowing when to ‘play the part’ — sometimes as the hero, sometimes as the Beast.